


Our Blade of Light

by chainspell



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainspell/pseuds/chainspell
Summary: The Warrior of Light was known to Eorzea as Dagny Fletcher. Most thought she was from Thavnair. That wasn't quite the truth.A narrative telling of a Warrior of Light from birth up to the events of A Realm Reborn.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Our Blade of Light

**Author's Note:**

> If you somehow stumbled upon this outside of twitter or my friend circles, thank you for taking a look! 
> 
> I don't know how to best explain this...my Warrior of Light has existed in some form since A Realm Reborn's beta, though her story has changed quite a bit throughout the years. When trying to write it out chronologically, I felt like I could only do it justice as a narrative. 
> 
> I take a lot of liberty with the lore of Dalmasca and Thavnair in particular and it plays heavily into her story and the person Dagny is when she steps off the boat in Limsa Lominsa at the beginning of A Realm Reborn. I like to think that everything I've come up with is possible within the universe that's been presented to us, but I know that's not going to be everyone's cup of tea. Just figured I'd give a warning beforehand. 
> 
> If you've decided this is your cup of tea, and you want to keep reading, I hope you enjoy!

Dalmascan was Lidor’s native tongue, but her grandmother spoke a variation that was near impossible to comprehend. She would mutter the lyrical words as she rocked each of her infant grandchildren to soothe their cries, carrying through the dry air like a bird’s song at dawn.

When Lidor went to pull water from the river in the morning, she would hear her grandmother’s melody, now high and loud, from the other side of the village. She would pass her father, who worked with the other men of the village in the always expiring wheat fields. He would pat Lidor firmly on the shoulder with a rough hand—trained for mining, not for farm work—as he strode by. His blue eyes were unwavering, emotionless, while his lips were drawn into a thin line.

Gollund was doomed to slowly wither away.

Lidor realized this when she was eleven or twelve summers, when the IVth legion swooped in on the village and took most of their autumn crop. It was to last them through the winter, but not a week went by without another death. Another cremation. Another scattering of ashes across the Estersands.

It was a wonder they didn’t starve—she was one of five when winter came. Arell, Peliah and Zohar all shared a bed with Lidor, while little baby Rouvin slept with Mother and Father in the main room. Grandmother had her own bed, the smallest yet nicest one, closest to the fireplace in the back room she shared with the older children. She would keep them awake with whispered, poetic tales of heroes before Dalmasca fell. Of life before the empire.

Lidor barely remembered it. She was three summers when the Garlean Empire marched into Gollund and stripped the mines of all their ores with their terrifying machinery.

She  _ did _ remember that Father tried to stop them, along with the other men. The rewards for his efforts was a bloody eye, a broken leg and a cracked horn.

He was one of the lucky ones.

The leg and horn never healed right.

Father would tilt his head to the right to hear his children’s words better even though it was said the Ayari children only knew how to yell. They were known to always be loud, to the many complaints of their neighbors.

His right leg limped along with every step, and he complained of aches late at night as Mother rubbed it with a foul-smelling lotion. They thought Lidor was asleep when she would sit on the floor by the door, absorbing every word that was exchanged.

Sometimes they would speak of where their next meal would come from. The Firoujzas were the best at fishing, and it was usually considered best to ask if they had any extra salted fish in the morning. Other nights they would speak of leaving, making their way to Valnain, and then to Kugane, and then…somewhere, if Hingashi would not take their family in. And on the rarest of nights, with the quietest tones and most nervous of words, they would speak of rebellion. Of reaching out to the resistance, of assisting them instead of turning them away, of taking back Dalmasca and having their village, their mines, their home be  _ theirs _ again instead of Garlemald’s.

But Father was a practical man and Mother loved her children far too much. It would be a fool’s gamble. As Lidor grew older, the conversations focused more and more on their next meals, and less of leaving or revolution. Her heart that was once hopeful to know the world outside of Gollund grew hardened and accepted that she would never live to see beyond the desert horizon. It would be a mercy if she died to famine like others did.

Grandmother hadn’t eaten for two weeks when the morning came and Lidor didn’t hear her morning song. The other men of the village passed her on the way to the fields, but Father was not among them.

She already knew the answer. Mayhap that was why she didn’t cry as Father sobbed over Grandmother’s body, stroking her silver hair and gripping onto her tightly. Her siblings cried too, of course, but Lidor stood in the doorway of the bedroom slightly behind Mother.

Mother was eight moons with another child they couldn’t feed. The impassive expression on her face told Lidor all she needed to know, for they thought the same thing: Grandmother’s passing struck the balance slightly in their favor. They could all survive a little longer.

“Go see Farzan, Lidor. Let him know there will be a cremation on the morrow.”

She almost dropped the bucket full of water to sprint out the door, before clumsily slamming it on the dining table. Water sloshed over and onto the worn, cracked wood.

=

They burned her as the sun set. Father had wept enough, and as smoke rose into the sky, Lidor felt a single tear run down her cheek and land in the sand. Rouvin held onto her hand as tightly as he could muster, but it was weak. He was half a fulm shorter than he should have been.

“Don’t cry, Lidor, Mother said Grandmother’s with Faram now.”

Lidor didn’t know where Grandmother’s soul went, but she knew anywhere was better than Gollund.

Mother hadn’t joined them for the cremation. She was never one to complain, but the twisted expression of her features and constant tapping of her tail was enough to tell Lidor that she was in pain. When she opened her mouth to offer to stay with her, Mother raised a hand and shooed her away, the other placing Rouvin’s hand in Lidor’s.

“Just pregnancy pains, you’ll understand one day.”

Lidor hoped she would never understand. She couldn’t imagine bringing someone into this horrible world.

Father remained close to the burning pyre even as the flames grew into deeper, blacker smoke, and then eventually into cinders. The villagers muttered their condolences and went back to their evening routines. While Rouvin remained at Lidor’s side, Arell and Peliah had taken to running around with some of the other village children. Peliah had a branch from one of the dried-out olive trees the village kept barely alive and she swung it around like a gunblade, making sounds to mimic that of aetherical cartridges with her mouth.

Lidor sighed and tugged Rouvin along, reaching out with her other hand to take the branch from Peliah. “Enough of that.”

Peliah rolled her eyes, hands on her hips.“We were just playing.”

“There’s a time and place for that, and this isn’t it,” Lidor said with a hiss. “Where’s Zohar?”

“With Father,” Arell told her, pointing a bony-thin finger over to Father.

Lidor turned her head, fully prepared to call the eldest of her siblings out on their bold-faced lie, but she stopped. Zohar was crouched down next to Father, his head pointing in the same direction. His tail, not fully grown but long enough to reach the sand, swung back and forth, creating a fan-like pattern.

Peliah shuffled in place, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. Arell stepped forward, his own tail swaying behind him, and rapped Zohar over the head with his fist.

Zohar jumped and swirled on the spot. The two were close in height, even with five summers between them. Arell was on the cusp of being considered a man and sent to work in the fields. “Hey—”

“Leave Father be,” Lidor raised her voice. “Come on, you still have your evening chores to do.”

“Lidor—”

“I was going to go—”

“Let me be with Father—”

“That’s enough,” Father’s voice shook, even though it held his signature tone of composure. “Go with Lidor. I…” His shoulders followed his voice, and he hung his head, holding back sobs.

Holding onto Rouvin’s hand a little tighter, she gave her other two brothers a sharp look. Reluctantly, Zohar and Arell walked back towards her, while Peliah passed them up the hill towards their house. Lidor kept her gaze upon the two boys until they were by her, and then she swung around on her heel to lead them back home.

It was only a minute of awkward, uneasy silence when Peliah reappeared, her face red, a mixture of excitement and worry etching her features. “The baby—the baby’s coming!”

Lidor froze. It was only an instant when the boys dashed ahead of her, but it felt like an eternity. Rouvin glanced up at her curiously, tugging at her hand, for he was the youngest and the excitement of a new baby had been all he talked about for weeks—when he did speak.

“Stop!” Lidor yelled, rushing ahead, dragging Rouvin along in her wake. She stretched out her arm and grabbed Zohar by the collar, while Peliah, ever eager to have a reason to tackle Arell, collided with him from behind, both tumbling into the dirt street. “Light of Kiltia—I swear—Arell, go tell Father. Peliah—”

Arell and Peliah were still fighting, Arell finding his way on top of his sister and pulling at Peliah’s hair. Zohar tugged at the collar of his shirt, struggling to break from Lidor’s grasp.

“STOP!”

The two fighting siblings froze, gazing at her with wide eyes. Peliah’s were golden, Arell’s azure.

“Peliah. Take Zohar and Rouvin to the Firoujzas. You are to stay there until I or Father get you.”

“But the baby—”

“Is something for me to handle, and not you,” Lidor said flatly. “Up. Now.”

The two scrambled to their feet, Peliah holding out her hands to take the hands of her two youngest siblings. Lidor released her grasp on Rouvin as he took Peliah’s hand with little argument, though Zohar was clearly reluctant.

“Want me to get the midwife?” Arell asked excitedly, bouncing on one foot, and then the other as Peliah stomped away in a huff, almost dragging her brothers behind her.

Lidor considered. He was probably old enough to help now, and Father nor Mother were in any state to decide. 

“Go get Father.” She was keeping an eye on Peliah and the boys, and they thankfully went in the direction of the Firoujzas, instead of their house. “Do whatever he or Mother asks of you. Don’t argue.”

Arell wordlessly nodded, a glisten in his eye that Lidor barely comprehended before he rushed back down to the funeral pyre.

The midwife of the village was an old woman that everyone called Rahele. She was around Grandmother’s age, or that was Lidor’s best guess. It felt rude to ask, even though she had been in their house enough times.

Mother had just as many miscarriages as births.

The lean-to Rahele lived in was against the butcher’s—or what belonged to the butcher, before the entire family was taken away in the dead of the night several summers before. No one ever moved in to take their residence out of respect, even though it had been suggested to Rahele a number of times.

“I would not want to live in a place with such sadness.”

Wasn’t that the entire village? Lidor couldn’t see her reasoning as she slammed her fist against the piece of wood that barely qualified as a door. The entire lean-to shook, and there was a moment’s rustling before a tired hyuran woman pushed the piece of wood aside.

“Ah, Faram works in mysterious ways,” Rahele rasped, giving Lidor a toothy smile. “I’ll be along—go to your mother.”

Father and Arell were already there when she got back. Rahele wasn’t far behind, tisking and humming an odd Dalmascan tune, setting about her work.

Mother having been with a child so many times, Lidor thought it was supposed to get easier.

But it never was. Not this time.

Mother cried out in pain throughout the night, and Lidor and Arell took turns retrieving water from the river or holding Mother’s hand. Sometimes Father would stand up from his chair in the corner, pace around the room and then hurry over to be at Mother’s side, before retreating back to his seat.

“You have steady hands,” Rahele mentioned to Lidor quietly as the tenth hour ticked by, as night was to give way to morning. “Maybe a future in midwifery would be good for you, hm?”

It was meant as a compliment, but it gave Lidor an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

Finally, the baby was born as the sun peeked over the horizon. Mother’s breaths were ragged, and her screams ceased, as the expectation of the baby’s cries to overtake them hit the room like a warm summer wind.

But there were no cries. Only Mother’s breaths, the click of the old clock, over a century old in the corner, and Father’s pacing footsteps.

Arell stood next to Lidor, the water bucket shaking in his hands. She wordlessly took it from him with one of hers, setting it onto the table. Her back turned away from the scene as she stared at her dim reflection in the water, hopeful that this would be the last time.

No more children.

“Sometimes they just need a little encouragement…” Rahele hummed, and a few seconds later, a weak cry gurgled itself to life, growing louder and louder. Lidor didn’t turn but she felt the relief immediately crash over the room, like a particularly strong current of the river.. Arell whooped in excitement, and Father’s words praising the Light of Kiltia and Faram were enough to force herself to relax and collapse into a chair. Her eyes finally wandered over to the baby crying, perfectly nestled against Mother’s chest, she and Father looking down at the baby with undying affection and love.

Lidor ushered Arell into the bedroom while Rahele cleaned things up. He insisted on being around the baby just a little while longer.

“There will be an entire lifetime for that,” Mother called from the bed with a laugh, running a finger across the baby’s hair. “And you will be arguing with her just like you do with Peliah, I’m sure.”

If Arell was offended, his tiredness won out, and he went to bed with no further argument.

“Maybe you will finally stop now, Mahin,” Rahele commented as Lidor reentered the room. The midwife had seemingly helped herself to some of Father’s aragh sagi, holding the bottle firmly in her grip. “Three boys, three girls—Faram’s blessings might not last much longer, you know.”

“We cannot exactly help when Faram decides to bless us,” Mother responded, the words terse but the tone relaxed. She looked over to Lidor. “Lidor, she has my eyes—just like you.”

Arell and Zohar looked exactly like Father, and Peliah looked exactly like Mother. Rouvin had inherited Mother’s hair and Father’s eyes.

Lidor’s looks—the unique combination of Father’s deep purple hair and Mother’s light, glowing eyes—was a bit of a novelty among the family.

Not anymore, she supposed, but she didn’t mind.

The expression Lidor gave, whatever it was, seemed to satisfy Mother enough. She turned her attention to Father. “We should name her after your mother.”

Father jumped at Mother’s words, having sat himself on the bed next to her, a large arm wrapped around Mother’s shoulders.

“It would only seem appropriate,” Rahele chimed in agreement. “Though that would make three children named in dedication to the Light of Kiltia, I believe?”

In Dalmascan, there were many words—and names that referred to the god of light, Faram, and his blessings. It was only natural to name one child after the light, and for larger families, not unusual to have multiple of them with names referring to the Light of Kiltia in some way. Arell and Zohar were both old Dalmascan words for light, but Lidor didn’t know that Grandmother’s name meant light as well…

“Meira,” Father said after a long pause, reaching gingerly to take the baby from Mother’s arms. She slept soundlessly, still, and even from the other side of the room, she almost looked like a child’s well-crafted doll. “Yes, yes…I suppose it would only be right.”

“May she give light to us all,” Rahele smiled, before taking a swig from the bottle of alcohol that she still held tightly.

It was late summer when Grandmother died.

And on the evening of her cremation, Lidor’s youngest sibling was born, just as rays of weak sunlight streamed across the main room.

In that moment, as Lidor hallucinated the melody of Grandmother’s song that always carried through in the early morning air, it genuinely felt like the voiceless newborn in Father’s arms gave all of their lives a little more light.

Years on, in the dead of night, surrounded by fire and screams, Lidor would realize it was hope.


End file.
